


rogers' swan

by bleebug



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers, swan princess trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 20:37:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleebug/pseuds/bleebug
Summary: (SPOILERS FOR 701.)Maybe he’s a bit mad, finding more pleasure in speaking to a bird than with people. It’s not as if she speaks back to him. But she doesn’t walk away and that’s better than he can say for most humans he’s known in his life.





	rogers' swan

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't really spec, just a kind of wishful thinking on Emma's absence for the S7 curse... (spoilers for killian's cursed identity)

Officer Rogers considers himself a kind enough person. He may not be good at socializing, and he certainly has no idea how to act around women, but it’s not as if there’s much he can do about it. It’s just not who he is; though, oftentimes he has to wonder if his true self is resting somewhere deep inside, waiting for some grand change in circumstances that might awaken him.

It’s a foolish thought. He knows well enough it’s just because he doesn’t try hard enough to be normal, to fit in. At least, that’s what his father would say if he were still around. But he also knows that despite his awkward nature, it’s really no excuse for how often his coworkers seem to talk about him behind his back.

This was the fifth time that he could remember hearing them planning an after-work trip to the pub down the street in the past month.

“ _Don’t invite Rogers. He’ll just bring us all down.”_

_“Good idea. He’d just make a mess of things, clumsy bastard.”_

_“The guy doesn’t know the meaning of a good time.”_

For whispering, they were all rather loud. He showed no outward signs he’d heard them, taking his outcast status with as much grace as he could. Suffice it to say, he’d never been invited. He’s certain he never will be.

_But no matter_ , he forces himself to think. _It’s not as if I’d enjoy their company, anyway_.

Instead of lingering on the fantasy of what he’d do if he _had_ been asked to join them – come out of his shell; be charming and sociable; make lifelong friends for his cheerful and upbeat attitude (what a joke) – he changes out of his poorly fitted uniform and into his jeans, t-shirt, and hoodie.

As he’s leaving the locker room, he looks into the mirror, observing himself. There’s a faded yellow stain near the collar of his shirt and the wrists of his hoodie are fraying. His jeans are older than he cares to admit, little holes from wear and tear around his pockets and knees. His prosthetic, ironically, seems to be the only nice thing he’s wearing. He hates it. But it’s better than nothing, at least.

Sighing, he grabs his satchel and heads out, ready to go through the same routine he does every evening when he gets off work.

His favorite sandwich shop is about a block and a half away from the station. More often than not, he likes to count the steps. Some days it’s 430 and some days as much as 450, depending on how tired he is and how many people he has to sidestep. He’s not sure why it matters.

Each day of the week is a different sandwich: tuna salad on Mondays, grilled chicken on Tuesdays, veggies on Wednesdays, and turkey club on Thursdays. Joey, the man who works the counter, knows his schedule well. It’s a Friday evening, and when he strolls in, Joey’s got a piping hot grilled cheese sandwich for him, with a side of onion rings. He says a quick hello, pays the man $6.45 in perfect change, and then heads towards the harbor to eat at his favorite bench.

Only… his favorite bench is occupied today. It’s odd; he can’t think of one time he’s ever come here and seen someone else sitting there. But now, there’s a young girl of ten or eleven speaking animatedly to a gentleman about his age. Her father, he presumes, but he has no intention of lingering. His daily routine may suffer, but there are other places to sit, surely.

He keeps walking until he happens upon a wooden barrel, fairly clean and in an area blessedly devoid of other people, and sits, tossing his satchel to the ground and digging open the paper bag with his dinner inside. Impatient, he pops an onion ring in his mouth before unwrapping his sandwich.

His eyes are on the bay, watching boats move slowly across the water, as he takes his first bite. It isn’t as if he’s ever been on a boat before, but he feels a connection with the ocean that he’s never been able to explain. In another life, he might have done something out there. He could be a fisherman, maybe, or a marine biologist if he’d spent the years learning. Maybe he could serve in a navy, or give tours around the bay. Hell, he could just be a world traveler, sailing wherever he pleased. Not that he wants to leave Seattle, or even Hyperion Heights for that matter.

A loud wail startles him from his thoughts and he nearly drops his meal when he jumps to his feet, whipping his head around to find the source. It takes him a moment to process that the sound was made by an animal, and by the time he realizes that, he has already caught sight of the poor bird by the rubbish bin, it’s head caught inside a plastic bag that it can’t seem to untangle itself from. It’s large and whitish – or it would be if it weren’t sporting a layer of dirt and sand. A goose?

He rewraps his sandwich and sets it down before cautiously approaching the panicked creature.

“Oy, birdie, don’t worry. I’ve got you. I’ll get that off. Nice bird.”

He doesn’t know why he’s talking to the damn thing, but he keeps muttering reassurances while he attempts to undo the knot keeping the bag in place. Either the bird did quite a fancy job of getting itself stuck, or some bastard tied the bag around its neck. He’s leaning heavily on the latter.

“There,” he says, finally pulling the bag away. His eyes go wide when he sees that it’s a swan. Admittedly, he knows practically nothing about birds, but he definitely knows the characteristic black coloration below the eyes and on the bill. “Well aren’t you lovely?”

He barely has the words out before the swan lunges at him, flapping its wings furiously and trying to nip at him. Luckily, no one is around to see how he flails and jumps away in fear, holding his hands – both real and fake – between them in a stance that says, ‘ _I am a grown man, an officer of the law, and oh god, please, bird, do not attack me because I will lose that battle.’ˆ_

Thankfully, the swan’s aggression seems to fade and he allows himself to relax.

“All right, swan. You’re free now. So…” He flicks his wrist. “Shoo, girl.”

Why on earth he thinks it’s a lady swan, he has no idea. Just a feeling.

The beast ignores him, of course. She seems a bit pompous, strutting around him and staring him down. It’s only when she leans down and he hears the crinkle of paper that he realizes the swan is getting into his meal. He finds the courage to charge at her in defense of his sandwich.

“Oy, get away from that!” She makes a bark of disapproval when he snatches it away and he holds it to his chest. “It’s not for you. Go… eat whatever swans eat.”

Do birds roll their eyes? He’s not sure that’s normal. She honks at him, her feathers fluffed, and he crosses his arms in defiance.

“I’ve done my part to help, now go on. One good deed is enough for me today.”

She doesn’t move, just stares him down. He can practically _feel_ his resolve crumbling beneath her gaze. How pathetic… He can’t even say no to a bloody bird.

“ _Fine_ ,” he huffs, awkwardly splitting the sandwich with his one working hand. He tosses the smaller half several feet away and the bird turns and attacks it. “Bit hungry, I see. Well, savor it. It’s all you’re getting.”

It’s five minutes before the swan manages to wheedle him into splitting his onion rings as well. He knows he’s a bit of a pushover, but damn. At least the bird is happy, sashaying back and forth in front of him while she swallows down a meal that’s undoubtedly not healthy for her.

“I thought swans stayed near lakes. Why are you near the ocean?” He tosses another onion ring and she quickly moves to gobble it up. “Were you not invited to the swan equivalent of an after-work party? Bet all those other swans are having the time of their lives, knocking back a few cold ones and gossiping about you. It’s just as well. If you were out at the lake with them, they’d probably ignore you anyway.”

He crumbles the empty paper wrappers and shoves them back into the bag. When the swan sees, she snorts and head-butts his leg.

“All gone. I’ve got no more.” She does it again and he pats her head with his prosthetic; if she chooses to bite, it won’t do her much good. “What a temper. There isn’t any left. Can’t give you what I don’t have. Besides, you ate half my bloody dinner, be grateful.”

She nips at his shirtsleeve, but he’s familiar enough with her by now to know she’s all talk. He pats her head again and she slumps, so dejected that it makes him stifle a laugh. When she finally waddles away, he almost feels dejected himself.

 

The following Monday, when he goes through his evening after-work routine, he bypasses his favorite bench with purpose. He’s got his tuna salad sandwich and fries today, but he also bought a salad, a mixture of greens that he has no intention of eating. And when he sees that same swan, quite a bit cleaner than before, resting beside the wooden barrel, he grins.

“Been waiting for another free meal, have you then?”

The swan fluffs her feathers but doesn’t move. He pulls out the plastic salad bowl, pops it open, and places it on the ground in front of her. When she curiously pushes some of it around with her bill, then takes a bite, he sits down and begins eating his own meal.

She seems less lively today.

“You pouting?” he asks. She snorts and wiggles, and he smiles. “Bad day or did you just miss my company?”

Maybe he’s a bit mad, finding more pleasure in speaking to a bird than with people. It’s not as if she speaks back to him. But she doesn’t walk away and that’s better than he can say for most humans he’s known in his life.

He spends half an hour in her company today, talking to her about his dull weekend or his struggles at work, pointing out his favorite boats in the harbor or commenting on how lovely the sky looks. She makes sounds to acknowledge him, scoffs when he says something she doesn’t like, and preens when he calls her _pretty bird_. He knows it’s foolish to think so, but he feels like she understands very well every word he speaks to her.

 

He comes back, day after day, and she’s always there waiting for him.

Sometimes she throws temper tantrums, flapping her wings about and nipping at his legs, as if she’s trying to tell him something but he just _won’t listen_ , but he can usually calm her down with a few onion rings and a pat on the head. He doesn’t know what it is about this ridiculous friendship with a wild animal, but it brightens his days. He can’t understand it.

But maybe someday, he will.


End file.
